


starlight.

by outpastthemoat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, Episode: s02e18 Hollywood Babylon, Fallen Angels, Fallen Star, M/M, Schmoop, sentimental drivel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:30:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1550525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outpastthemoat/pseuds/outpastthemoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a very silly hollywood babylon au. wip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean is one hell of a P.A.  Everyone on set, both above and below the line, they all agree on this.  He is a gem, a national fucking treasure.  He could be the national anthem of P.A.s, he is the national bird of P.A.s.  He is the national tree of P.A.s, in the sense that everyone on set knows that something like this exists, theoretically, but no one knows if it’s supposed to be the sequoyah or the redwood and nobody can remember why there had to be a national tree in the first place, or how it happened to pass that the redwood or sequoyah was nominated for this office.  And meanwhile there’s just Dean, shaking his head and marveling at all the losers who don’t actually know that the national tree is the oak, and then goes back to his business of offloading smoothies to above-the-lines hanging around video village.  He does a lot, and he's good at his job, and he knows it.  Other people know it, too.

By the time the day is over Dean, as usual, feels mostly like dropping on the floor and weeping softly.  He pulls off his headset and runs his fingers through his hair.  It’s sweaty and sticky and sort of gross.  Kind of like the pit stains under the sleeves of his black  _Hell Hazers III: The Harrowing_  production t-shirt and the grease marks on the knees and seat of his jeans from hanging out under the hood of today’s picture car.  Sixteen hours work days really take it out of him.

Everyone is going out afterwards.  Well. Everyone is relative.  Relatively everyone he knows and considers himself to be good friends with is going out afterwards. And acquaintances, too.  And the folks from locations that he really just considers Facebook friends.  Everyone is going out except for him.  How they are planning to muster the energy, Dean doesn't know. All he can think about during Martini Shot is going home and collapsing on his futon.  Craft services Kate does ask him if he’s going out too, and the fact that someone asked him to be a part of a group of something, _finally_ , is actually enough to make something in his chest flicker to life and is almost enough to really tempt him, but he just shakes his head at her.  

"No," he says, "I’ve gotta crash." He's wishing that instead of crashing, he could say, I'm headed home.  He's thinking about how nice it would be to go back to a place where the dishes aren't collecting flies in the sink, a place where he has a dishwasher and a real bed and maybe even someone else to fill it up, but Marty calls him back before he can leave the set.

He drags Dean back into a corner of the production office.  "Dean," he says, "You're a hell of a P.A."

'I know," he says, because really, he does know, even though sometimes he wonders why he chose this life.  And then went on choosing it, after the glamour wore off. But the only real reason he can come up with for why he just keeps on showing up for crew calls that start at 5 a.m. is really because of _this._  This, all of it, it’s his.  He looks around the set and sees a lot of crap that needs to be done, a lot of careless mistakes that need to be fixed, and a lot of equipment that needs careful handling, and he’s the only one who can do it all.  He’s needed here. He’s the only body on set that can sweet-talk craft services Kate out of her entire supply of Miracle Whip for a prank, he’s the only P.A. who fully understands the delicate needs of the camera dolly and he is the only other person the grip will allow to stand near it.

"Tom's leaving," Marty tells him, and Dean's ears perk up.  "Greener pastures.  I think you could be an okay key set P.A. Think about it, Dean," he says.

Dean does.  He thinks about it all the way back to his apartment, which is really more like an economy lodge.  There's a vaguely kitchen-like area with a sink and cabinets but no oven and no dishwasher, there's a bathroom so small that the door won't open all the way inside, there's the bedroom, which is also the living room and the kitchen and everything else all rolled into one.  He thinks about it while dodging the drunk on the staircase and while wrestling mightily with his lock, which sticks.  He finally breaks into his apartment with a heave and a grunt and flips on the switch.  He listens to the sound of tiny disgusting roach feet darting away to hide under the baseboards like the filthy cowards they are and thinks about it some more. 

There are boxes Dean still hasn’t unpacked since the day he moved into this apartment.  He trips over one of them on the way to the kitchen and tells himself consolingly that he’ll find another place next month, which is the same lie he’s told himself for going on a year now.  He's always lived by one kind of mantra or another, that sort of credo: Tomorrow will be better, one of these days, when the timing's right. Someday soon. That's when he'll pull himself together.  That's when the pieces of his life will start to fall in place.  Does it come with a raise? he wonders.   Maybe the extra money would be enough for a deposit on a better place.  He's thinking about checking apartment listings in the paper, about hitting up Craigslist.  Maybe he find someone to split the cost.  

He's thinking about the logistics of this as he catches his toe on the corner of a wine crate he'd stolen from behind the liquor store across the street from Sam's dorm room and then spends the next ten minutes hopping on one foot and cussing under his breath. Is this my life? he's asking himself. Is this how it's gonna be? A crappy apartment, sixteen-hour work days, spicy chicken ramen noodle cups for dinner.  For the rest of his life.  Maybe even after that, depending.  

"I don’t know, Dean," Sam says when Dean calls him up to pose this question. Easy for him to say. Sam has Stanford. Sam has a future as clear-cut and brilliant as a diamond; shining, sparkling, full of promise and white picket fences and magna cum laudes and top-of-the-line corner office choices.  Meanwhile Dean is drowning in uncertainty and what-ifs and maybes and if-only-I-coulds; he’s as aimless as he’s ever been, and even though he’s spend years circling furiously across the continental United States, these days he doesn’t even have the benefit of a road map.  Dean orders pizza with banana peppers and mushrooms and sits on the futon in his underwear and chews morosely at Sam over the phone.

“So what do I do? Do I take the job?"

Over the line, Sam is chewing right back at him. It sounds like smugness and dazzlingly white teeth and potential.  It also sounds like the ADPH-score-100 quality cuisine Sam can afford to buy thanks to his massive student loans.  "Is it a  _better_ job?" Sam asks thoughtfully.

"I guess," Dean says. "I'd be a king. King of the P.A.s." That sounds pretty awesome, actually.  

"Does it come with a raise?"

"It fucking better," says Dean.

"Well, then," Sam says, in a way that sounds final.  But then he adds,  “Do you _want_ it?”

 “ _I_ don’t know,” Dean says to him, obscurely annoyed; if _he_ doesn’t know then Sam really fucking ought to.  That's how it usually works.

 "Huh," Sam says.  “Is there anything you _do_ know that you want?”

Dean stuffs his face with pizza and considers the question.  He knows that he wants an actual bed with an actual mattress and actual box springs and actual bedsheets instead of a shitty futon that occasionally collapses if he sits down on it the wrong way.  He knows he wants to be able to buy a better-tasting beer.  He wants to live in a place where roaches don't scurry out of sight the moment he flips on the light every morning.  He wants to not have to wash his dishes every night.  He wants a raise, or to win the lottery, or both. Or neither.  He doesn't know.  He wants something better than this, but he can't form a shape to fit this desire, can't work out what he wants so that he can go after it.  "I want a roommate," he says.

“Let me get this straight,” says Sam. “You are twenty-seven years old.  Theoretically these are the best years of your life.  You are in your prime.  Let's say you can have anything you want, if you go out and get it. The world, the universe even, is your buffet.  And you think that you really just want a roommate.”

“I get bored,” Dean protests.  "I have too many leftovers."

“You should want something else,” Sam says. “Something. More? Something more than just a roommate.”

Easy for him to say.  Sam has always known what he wants.  Dean has always been uncomfortably aware that the only thing he knows for sure is that he has never wanted anything enough to go after it.  “I just want a roommate,” he says defiantly.  "That'd be okay, I guess."

"A roommate," Sam repeats. 

“Just a roommate,” Dean tells him.  “That’s all I need.”

Sam hangs up on him ten minutes later.  Dean throws his cellphone on the wine crate that serves as his coffee table and sprawls out on his shitty futon and sulks alone in the dark. He can hear roaches scurrying in the kitchen, and he shudders.  

After a while, he gets up and, without really knowing why, goes to sit in front of the window for a while.  He thinks it’s probably the one nice feature of this dump, anyway, that window.  It’s high up on the wall over his futon, so high it’s only accessible by the emergency rope ladder he'd found in a cabinet in the kitchen, but it's set in an alcove, so you can tuck yourself inside the space with your back against wall and your side pressed up against the dirty glass and your legs stretched all the way out.  And you can  _look._

He climbs up the ladder and situates himself there and looks down, down, down, at the tiny pinpricks that are headlights from cars and at the brighter halos of streetlights, lampposts, the illuminated letters out in front of the apartment complex that spell out _STARLITE SUITES_ ; the pale blue light that comes from the rooftop patio of the nearest bar.  There are real stars, too, once in a blue moon.  He can count them tonight, one-two-three-four-five-six.  There's smog and light pollution and cloudy nights here; you can't see a thing, the view's all muddled up.  He thinks of Kansas, briefly; remembers the way the night sky was absolutely studded with brilliantly-burning stars, how on clear nights you could look up at the sky and feel like you were close enough to the stars that if you lifted your hand, you could reach up into heaven.  But the lights in Hollywood are nothing he would have thought to ask for and everything he thinks he might want.  The lights are the best part of his day.  

Tonight he looks down and thinks about how many people must be down there, alone, lonely like him, and then he looks back up at the brightest of those six stars and he wishes that he gets everything he's ever wanted, but he must not have wished for those things very hard, because when he climbs back down the ladder and settles down on the futon he's already forgotten what he's wished for.


	2. Chapter 2

The joke on the first set that Dean had worked on was that Dean was the P.A. from hell.  Everything he had touched seemed to go up in flames.  On his first day on the set, his boot had gotten tangled up in the electrical cords that snake around underfoot everywhere, all the time, and when he had reached out to break his fall he’d taken out the juice to four open face 2K lighting units and a deuce along with him.  He had also spilled the peach, vanilla, birthday cake batter and strawberry milkshakes he’d been carrying all over the A.D.’s shoes.  He had gone on to touch the camera dolly without permission, and five minutes later it had shuddered lightly, tipped off its tracks, collapsed on the floor, sparking faintly, and then died.  Marty had been in tears over it.  Throughout the filming of _Hell Hazers II: The Reckoning,_ the running gag on set had been that anything that didn’t work must’ve been touched by an angel, meaning the angel of death. Meaning Dean. Everyone laughs at this, still, every time Marty says it.  Like it's funny.  Dean laughs along too, because the only thing in the world less funny than a stupid joke is being the guy who can't take one.

His world must be a very small one, because Dean has never been able to escape that joke, the one that said that everything he touches is cursed, is broken, is going to break down any minute now.  This is most likely because he is still working with the most of the same crew who had worked on Hell Hazers II.  But that whole set had been spooky.  Dean hadn’t realized until afterwards, after he’d worked on other sets, been on different crews, how uneasy that crew had been. Wendy had gone around after the last take and covered all the broken mirrors that  hung on the walls of the Gothic mansion set.  There was Cindy, who kept going through the dailies, swearing she caught a bogey in every take of the same scene.  There was Toby in sound, who could be found playing all the dialogue from Act II backwards in every spare minute, who had said, mysteriously, that when he did so he was absorbing the secrets of the universe.  And then there was Dean, who had thrown up his arms at all of them in amazement, astounded that anyone could really be that superstitious, or in Toby's case, that stoned, or in Cindy's case maybe both.

He’d thought of Sam’s high school production of _MacBeth_ , how Sam had come home with wide eyes telling him that Kathy Evans had fallen off stage and broken her wrist after saying the name _M----_ out loud, and how there was serious talk of canceling the play altogether in the face of this disaster.  

“We’re cursed now,” Sam had told him, grim and resigned, and he had sounded so earnestly anguished about it that Dean had slid down the wall laughing and landed on his ass, laughing so hard he could feel real tears being squeezed out of his tear ducts, he couldn’t help it, and Sam had thrown a Coke can at him and called him an insensitive jerk before running off to his bedroom.

So when the power goes out during today’s Abby Singer and he hears someone say, in a quiet voice with a quivering, ghostly vibrato, “Where’s Dean?,” he knows he is not being asked to get over there and fix something. Because he can, you know. He's good with cars and decent with woodworking and all right with wiring.  That's what he wants to be known for. Fixing things. The joke's old, anyway.

“You’re an asshole, Dave,” Dean says into his headset, with dignity.

"Copy that," responds Dave's quivering vibrato, which is now more suggestive of poorly-concealed hilarity than acute terror.

The eletrician’s working on getting the juice running again for the last two shots of the day, and while there is a certain dim light coming from the lights running off the backup generators, casting the set in shadows, it’s mostly too dark to see clearly.  

The darkness is doing weird things to his vision.  There are shapes in the corners of the set, strange flickering forms, darker than even the darkness covering the set.  As Dean stares into the dark he keeps an eye on the strange forms that are rising up the walls and spreading out across the ceiling. He is still watching the shapes out of the corner of his eye when they shudder once, like a bird rustling its feathers, and then snap sharply back together and draw themselves closed.  Folding its wings, Dean supposes.  He’s still kind of thinking about birds, which is why he isn’t surprised when he bends down to pick up a set of cables and finds feathers tucked between the cords, rumpled, untidy, long black feathers.  He plucks one out and twists it through his fingers lightly, rubbing his thumb down the soft black down near the quill.  

He can hear Tara Benchley talking quietly somewhere off to the side, rehearsing her lines, the same stiff syllables he’s heard her repeating 24/7 for the past three days.  He mouths the words along with her steady chant, Rah ah gah ee oh es, ee nu nohno kee ah seh peh teh poh ah ma lah deh zod.  It sounds dumb, and whispering the words makes him feel like he's trying to talk around a handful of marbles rolling around inside his mouth, but then again, most of Walter’s dialogue comes across that way.   But there's a certain rhythm to the words, they get in your head; Dean's found himself repeating the lines while drying his dishes, or while scrubbing his hair in the shower, or while jogging across the set.

The electrician must be something right, because for a moment all Dean sees is a shower of sparks, a faint flicker of light, then there's the void and darkness again, but only for the barest second, because then there's a light so bright that Dean instinctively turns his head away. Then the lights are popping on and off and on again and there's a noise Dean can't even hear but that he can feel deep inside himself, rattling his bones and hollowing out his ears, and Dean can't hear the sound of glass shattering but when he's crouching on the floor he can feel shards of glass under his knees; he takes his hands away from his ears and stares at them, puzzled, because they come away wet with bright red blood. I'm cursed, he is thinking, and he doesn't know why, but he wipes his hands across the thighs of his jeans and leaves dark bloodstains and thinks, over and over again, it's all he can think, I really am. I really am cursed.


	3. Chapter 3

There is blood on the walls of the Gothic manor set. Dean knows it’s fake.  Not real blood, just paint: Hey presto, wham-bam shazzam.  Movie magic.  But every time he walks on that set he finds himself shuddering, completely grossed out.  He can remember brushing up against one of those blood-splattered walls back when the set was being built. He can still remember looking down at himself and being startled to find dark red paint all over his shirt, all over his jeans, all over his arms and wrists and hands.  By the time he got back to his apartment that night, he’d found that the paint had set: he couldn’t wash the red out, no matter how much time he spent bent over the sink.  He’d scrubbed himself until his skin was pink and raw and stinging from the heaping globs of harsh antibacterial dish soap he kept squeezing into his palms, long after any reasonable person would have given up.

He’d scrubbed between his fingers and used a file under his nails but when he brought his hands up to his eyes all he could see was that red paint, flecks of it scattered across his skin like freckles, and when he dreamed that night it was of blood, blood everywhere, blood slowly pumping across the floor of his apartment, blood seeping under his futon. He’d woken up and found angry red marks on the backs of his hands: he had scratched himself until he’d broken the skin there.  He’d shown the marks - mostly faded but still raised and faintly pink - to Sam, when he’d driven up to Sanford a week afterward.

Sam had shuddered at the sight. “You watch too many horror movies,” Sam had said darkly.  “You should. I dunno. Maybe cut back on _The Exorcist_ reruns a little. Watch SNL.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Dean had countered.  He’d managed to muster up a front of cheerful bravado for Sam’s benefit. It had taken him a good twenty minutes in the car beforehand, parked illegally and flashing his blinkers and telling himself that even if he’s flipped his goddamn lid, he can’t just act freaking nuts in front of his brother.  “I mean, come on.  Watching horror films is like, my _job_.”  But all the same, he’d started watching _The Late Late Show_ instead of reruns of _The X-Files,_ and had taken to leaving the kitchen lights on all night.

He still gets a certain shiver running up and down his spine whenever he walks through that set, especially when he’s one of the last people hanging around, when the sound stage is almost pitch-black and amplifying what might have been normal, everyday noises into something distinctly more sinister.   The actors were allowed to abandon ship hours ago thanks to the blowout, but Dean’s still on set hours later, poking around in the dark with a flashlight, sweeping shards of glass into tidy little piles and marking all the windows and mirror that need replacing because that's what good little P.A.'s do.  

All the mirrors on the Gothic manor set had been shattered during the blowout.  Glass crunches under his boots wherever he steps.  He can imagine himself walking through a crypt, with skulls and fingerbones and petrified husks of saints and martyrs crumbling underfoot.  Dean’s always been good at psyching himself out. He can remember being seven years old and reading volumes of Goosebumps by flashlight until Bobby had pounded on his door and hollered at him to cut it out, then lying awake for hours, hiding under the bedsheets with his eyes closed, quaking alone in the dark. He could have sworn he’d seen something in the black pockets of space between his bed and his bedroom window, formless shapes with red eyes and yellow eyes and white eyes, shapes with no eyes at all, shapes with mouths stretched out in horrible grimaces, and he’d known, without really knowing how, that those shapes were here because of him.

He walks through the set, through the exterior courtyard with its empty, crumbling stone fountain and the dead rose vines hanging off the trellis, and then through the false front of the set, which opens up into a hallway lined with mirrors and steeply arched Gothic windows and sconces.  The classic haunted house look.  All the mirrors on this set are broken, too, but Dean’s wondering if maybe Marty will like this better, the cracked windows and mirrors and glass all over the fake stone floor.  And then he stops. Because there is a naked dude on his set. 

Dean blinks once, then again. There’s still a naked dude on his set.  He takes his headset off and sort of shakes it a little, then sticks it back on his head, like a nearsighted guy with glasses wiping the lenses.  It doesn’t help. Nope. Definitely still a naked guy. On his set.  What the hell.  He’s just standing there, at the end of the hall. 

This has to be some kind of joke, Dean tells himself firmly.  A joke a joke a joke.  He’d stopped moving some time ago. Now he makes a valiant effort to move his feet.  Come on, he tells them, let’s get out of here. But he’s not moving. Okay. New plan.  “Who the fuck are you?” he demands.

“A star,” says the intruder. Dean thinks, instantly: What a douchebag. What a joker.  Like he thinks Dean’s never heard that line before. It’s the number-one joke around here: Who do you think you are? America’s next top model?  America’s next Miley Cyrus?  A star? Ha, ha.  Good one.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean snaps, “you don’t look particularly famous to me.  You don’t even look _infamous_. I would know, too, ‘cause I watch a lot of--you know what, I _did_ read the script, pal, and I know for a fact that it does not call for nude sacrificial virgins. If that’s what you’re supposed to be.”

“I don’t know why I’m here,” says the so-called _Star_.  He blinks at Dean calmly, like, _Guess what, sucker, I’m your problem now.  It’s your lucky day._  The life of a P.A.  “I just arrived.”

“You and me both,” Dean grinds out.  “Okay. You’re new here. _Super_. But what are you doing back here, on _my set_?”

“I was called,” says the _Star._ Dean can’t stop thinking of him like that, all derisive italics and condescending capital letters: the _Star_. He can’t help himself.  

“No way,” Dean retorts. “I know everything that goes on around here. Everything. And I know- I _know_ , okay - that you’re not supposed to be here.”

“No,” says the _Star,_ very slowly.  He glances around, at the mirrors and stupid cheesy sconces and fake stone surfaces - all of this 40s horror flick crap that Marty loves so much, the look he loves to call _neo-romantic occultism_ \- and then looks back at Dean with alarm, like it’s the first time he’s really noticed him.  Like he’s just now realizing that Dean is not just a prop, some kind of background decor, but an actual person.  “You're right.  I’m not.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean knows what this set is supposed to look like, and this isn’t it.  The script had not called for sigils to be painted on the floors with what is most certainly not dark red paint.  Nor, Dean is certain, did set design request a bowl of bones and blood and matted clumps of hair and what is almost definitely real, actual, viscera.

“No,” he says instantly, but even as he says the word, he’s remembering the brilliant light he’d seen when the glass had blown out, even with his eyes closed; he’s remembering a feeling in his legs and arms as though his bones had shattered and then been glued back together.  He remembers thinking, I’m cursed.  He knows he’s already more than halfway to believing in something he isn’t sure he’s ready to believe in, and the thought sends his heart into his throat.  “Excuse me,” he says.  He walks away until he finds himself in a corner that doesn’t smell like blood and guts - because blood and guts have a very distinct smell, Dean has never once wondered what his insides might smell like but now he knows - and he curls over into himself, and pukes.

"My life is a horror flick,” Dean gasps.  What’s next?, he’s thinking, blinded with panic.  Being knifed by Norman Bates in the shower tomorrow morning?  Being strangled in his own dreams?  “I’ve had so much sex,” he says wildly. “I’m not final girl material!”  I’d be dead fifteen minutes into the first act, he thinks with agony.  He’s standing there, bent over at the waist and hugging his arms around his middle, when he feels a light touch on his shoulder.  

“You seem,” the _Star_ seems to be searching for the right term. “Concerned.”

Dean risks opening his eyes.  The dude’s still there. He’s still naked.

“Just,” Dean trails off. He clutches his forehead.  He needs an aspirin.  “Just stay here,” he says vaguely.  

"Okay," says the  _Star_.  

He walks across set, all the way to wardrobe.  He rifles guiltily through brand-name jeans and shirts and boots.  He’s sure he isn’t supposed to be handling this stuff.  He’ll need to apologize to someone tomorrow.  He's probably going to get fired for this.  He doesn’t know how the head of wardrobe will take it.  That whole department is a mystery to Dean.  Oh god, he thinks, I was about to get promoted.  He pulls out a shirt he thinks will work.  He sorts through a rack of artistically ripped and bleached jeans and spends five minutes trying to chose between pants with a 34 or a 38 waist.  How should I know? he asks himself. We just met, really.  He's probably a psychopath, he probably doesn't care about the difference between classic fit or casual cut jeans.  Oh, Jesus. I’m going to have to call somebody because _that is real blood_.  

He grabs an armful of clothes and steels himself and heads back to the set. The _star_ is still there.  So is the blood.  Dean hands the clothes over and says, "Put these on. _Please_."  He looks away politely and tries to puzzle out how to frame the right kind of questions for a situation like this. What the actual fuck, dude?  Did you kill an animal and perform black magic on this set?  Should I call the police or a mental institution?  Do I have to clean up cat guts before I can go home tonight?  Has this day been as sucky for you as it has been for me?  Because really, I don't think it has.  He catches another eyeful of  _naked guy_  as thedude pulls on the jeans.  Movie magic, he finds himself scoffing.  No one is supposed to look this good close up. That’s what post-production is for. It's all the lighting. Anyone would look good under a flashlight boasting air traffic control-levels-of-brightness and dim overhead lights.   Anyone.  

"So," he says casually. His voice comes out sounding strangled.  "This is. _Real blood._ "

 The dude crouches at the edge of the sigil and sort of pokes at it.  "Yeah," he agrees.  "Real blood.  It was here when I arrived," he says.  He cuts his eyes to Dean.  "I didn't do it," he states plainly.  "It brought me here."

"Here?" Dean asks.  "Here from _where_?"

"I don't know," says the _Star_.  He puts a finger very very close to a smallish puddle of blood on the floor but doesn't actually touch it, even though the look on his faces says he would kind of  _like_ to. "I can't remember."

Dean's head is starting to ache again.  "So what do you remember?" he asks.  "Anything helpful? Anything at all?"  He works on a movie set.  He can hold up an act of calm for a little while longer.  The _Star_ turns his head on its side and looks at Dean, like a bug being examined by some sort of infinite, cosmic scientist.  Maybe, he thinks, maybe he's just dealing with an alien. Aliens are 120% less potentially terrifying than black magic and demons and slasher films.  I am dealing with some kind of amnesiac alien, he tells himself.  A pleasant, cooperative alien.  Like the guy from _Third Rock From the Sun_.  Like Robin Williams.  Mork was a nice guy.  I bet this guy is nice, too.

"My name," says the _Star_.  "Cassiel. No. Wait. That doesn't sound right. Something like that, anyway. So what am I supposed to do now?"


End file.
